Insight (DW)
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: Tumblr Whouffle Prompt: Clara picks up Elevens fallen bowtie and keeps it with her at all times and when alone she just stares at it remembering him and sometimes she wears it.


He catches her with it, when she thinks he's not looking. Her hand absently drifts to the pocket of her skirt when they're on a planet and she's contemplating their surroundings, or when they're back in the Tardis, floating among the stars, retiring to a bedroom she refuses to call her own. She's lost in her own world when she touches it, mind focused solely on the purple material between her fingers, or lazily bouncing over her wrists as she swings it side to side within her fist, and the memories that come with it.

They're _his_ memories too.

It's the thing she continually forgets.

And he supposes it's not unlike how he tried to push away the thoughts of Gallifrey during his tenure as her Doctor – the memory too painful for him to truly absorb. He's still the same man; he's still the Doctor – he's still _her Doctor_, but Clara chooses to push that aside… she pushes him aside to focus on solving the problems they find.

It's the thing that haunts him, when he tries to reconcile who he is. Because he still has moments where he wonders, her words lingering in his mind – "_I don't think I know who you are_" – with a double pang of anxiety in his chest. If she didn't know, and she knew him best out of anyone in the universe, then how could he be so sure of himself, of who he was and all that he'd done.

She's fallen asleep with it wrapped around her neck, the exhaustion of their day's adventure settled into the small creases that have formed at the corners of her eyes, and he looks down on it with both adoration and disgust. He had a fondness for it and she'd mocked him time and time again and now he understood why – or at least this self does: he'd looked foolish. A boy in a man's clothes; a boy prancing about with silly words and hearty sentiment who strutted for her when he knew he shouldn't have.

Because she was human.

Humans grew attachments; they expected longevity.

_And then they died._

Standing over her, looking to the steady rise and fall of her chest, he considered her for the hundredth time that day. When he met her, she'd been so young; so very young. She skipped behind him like a school girl and he'd cherished it, listening to those small steps tapping a rhythm on his hearts knowing he'd turn and see the small smile on her face dimpling her left cheek. An indentation, he always considered, perfect for his thumb to settle in as he caressed her face.

He reached for it now, touching a thin wrinkled finger to the delicate flesh before recoiling and grasping his hands together on front of him. It was what she saw when she looked at him now. Clara saw not the handsome stranger she called _her_ Doctor; she saw the time-ravaged man. She saw _The Doctor_ and despite his pleas and her assertions to the contrary, he feared it was all she would ever see.

With a small sigh, he pushed the thought aside and he carefully undid the bow at her neck, listening to the light murmur she gave as the fabric slipped off of her and he swung it over his head, landing it against his shoulders as he lifted the collar of his crisp white shirt.

"The man is still the boy; the boy was always the man," he muttered as he looped the purple around itself and tugged lightly, fingers landing atop the finished product as a smile landed on his lips, "Ah, Clara, perhaps a perception filter of sorts. Perhaps," he repeated as he turned away from her, bowing his head and feeling his neck constricted by the new item sitting uncomfortably at his throat.

He exhaled in amusement as he thought over all of the times she'd called it silly. All of the times she'd asked him if he'd consider a tie, or if he'd be sad if he lost it – and he knew she was plotting to hide them. He hid them from her and enjoyed the look of frustration on her face as he came onto the console as she stepped through the front door and gave it a small toggle now with his hand.

"Perhaps," he heard lightly, and he swung around to see her peering up at him through half-closed eyes, a frown on her face as she finished, "I'm quite ok with you just as you are."

"As you've said," he groaned, lifting a hand to offer a curl of his fingers in her direction.

She didn't shift; made no attempt to sit up, and he watched her as she eyed him. Her mind was working him over, he knew – just as it had been since he'd first laid these eyes on her. Since he'd first looked on her shocked face and thought to himself anxiously: _Who is this woman, I know she's important… why can't I remember? So very important…_

The guilt of that, of knowing how terrible his regeneration had been for her, sat heavily in his stomach and he lifted a finger to curl it over the bowtie and it was then that she stood. It was slow, rolling to sit to get his attention, and then she rose to her feet and stepped in front of him, head momentarily lowered before she shook her hair away and raised her hands towards his neck.

Clara pushed his fingers away and she undid the purple strip, holding each side in her fists against his two hearts before she slid it off his neck and gave a gentle laugh as it fell limply into her right hand. She smiled up at him, a sad smile he'd gotten used to, and she told him firmly, "Doesn't suit you."

"I get the impression a lot of things don't," he sighed in response.

Her eyebrows lifted and then she turned away, wrapping the bow tie around her hand and holding it tightly as she twirled back around to face him, "A lot of things don't – this version of you."

He touched the space above the bridge of his nose and teased, "It's just the impression the eyebrows give, always cross with the world even when I'm not." He chuckled to himself as he lowered his head and muttered, "Bit of compensation, I think, for the last pair."

Clara laughed, head dropping at a memory. He knew he'd settled on the same one – a day when she'd teased him, palms landing against his cheekbones to run her thumbs along his brow at either side with a simple shake of her head and a calmly stated, "_Your_ _Eyebrows_."

"Clara?" He called, watching as she lifted her eyes to meet his. "I could wear it. It's a bit cumbersome, but if it would make the transition easier…"

"Don't," she interrupted, shaking her head and knotting her brow together. Then she smiled, "Doesn't _suit_ you." She watched him, the way she always did and he smiled to the ground, flapping his jacket back to push his hands into his pocket and he felt her approaching, unwinding the bowtie from her hand to hide it away in her trousers. Clara stood before him and she released a sigh. "Don't be him for me."

His head tilted as he told her feet, "Would seem you'd prefer it that way."

"I'm sorry," she told him lightly, remaining a few feet away, left hand absently rubbing at the fabric wrapped around her right and she glanced down at it, releasing a small breath before shaking her head and repeating, "I'm sorry, Doctor – I miss this idiot sometimes," she raised her covered hand and then looked to him, "But he doesn't suit you and you shouldn't try to move back to accommodate me."

The Doctor nodded and smirked, telling her, "Insecurity – not a trait I generally acknowledge, nor harbor, but somehow," he shook a finger at her, then let it drop away, "You bring that out in me, Clara."

She covered the distance between them and looked up to him.

"Suppose it feeds your ego," he shot, lips lifting again.

Clara shrugged and smirked as she reached up, smoothing the lapels of his shirt before letting her palms slip over the material of his coat, resting them against his hearts with a long sigh, "You are you and I wouldn't have it any other way." She watched her hands, thumbs taking small swipes against him as she pleaded, "You keep asking me to _see_ you and maybe it's your newfound insecurity, or maybe it's something else," she tilted her head slightly, eyes focused on his steady breaths as she continued, "So I'm going to ask you once more. Just once more, Doctor, right now. Please, _hear me_," she raised her head, "Because _I do I see_ _you_, Doctor."

He watched her smile, a small knowing curl of her lips that jolted his hearts just underneath her palms and he nodded slowly, telling her quietly, "Ok, Clara. I hear you."

Inching up to peck his cheek, she whispered, "Good."

Then she inched back and took a step away, awkwardly shifting aside and moving to a desk to undo the bowtie around her hand. Clara straightened it and carefully folded it several times before taking a breath. The Doctor watched her as she pulled the hutch on the desk open and slipped the bowtie inside, closing that cover tightly before swinging around to face him.

She studied him, like she always did, and the Doctor allowed himself to see the acceptance in her stance; the acceptance in the look she was giving him – one that said she trusted him, one that said she wanted to travel with him, one that reaffirmed she still loved him in spite of everything he'd become – just before she glanced around the room with a subtle nod and playfully barked, "Out of _my_ bedroom, Doctor. I am _human_ and I need a _nap_."

Letting loose a quick loud laugh, he let his head fall back slightly in amusement before he nodded and pushed his hands into his pockets, telling her lightly with a rise his brow, "Alright, Clara. Take all the time you need," and he listened to her giggle as he passed and stepped back out into the corridor. The bed in the room gave a light creak as she settled herself back into it and he was nearing the console when he realized what she'd said. When he'd finally listened and he smiled, smoothing the thrusters to ease the slight hum out of the Tardis to make it easier for her to sleep.

"Your _bedroom_," he whispered on a chuckle before glancing up at his reflection in the glass at the center and sighing contentedly, "Whatever you say, Clara."


End file.
